


Origins

by orphan_account



Series: dark nights and bright stars: a Critical Role Star Wars AU [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Blood, Gen, Hacking, Medical Procedures, Piracy, Thievery, very specific star wars terms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-15 21:12:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11239311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a band of bounty hunters with hearts of gold formed to fight against the growing spread of evil in the Republic.But before they could do that, they each had to come from somewhere.





	1. Pike Trickfoot, Army Medic

When Pike comes to, it is to the sound of blaster bolts and cannon fire screaming through the air above her. For a moment, all she can sense is the crumbling dirt beneath her cheek, packed down hard by the trampling boots that stormed through this way earlier, and the feeling of blood trickling down her temple where flying debris had caught her above the eye.

Her comm link crackles into life a few inches from her ear. _“Can anyone… Red team overrun…requesting…”_

Pike’s eyelids are gummed shut by a combination of dust and blood, and it takes her precious seconds to force them open. The sky is dark and heavy with smoke that makes her overly sensitive eyes fill with involuntary tears. With a painful shove she forces herself off the ground. Her armor digs into her knees uncomfortably, but she pushes the pain to the back of her mind. 

“This is Blue Six, please repeat?” Her own voice is hoarse with all the dirt she must have inhaled over the past few hours.

It’s almost impossible to make out the words through the static. _“This is Red Leader, requesting emergency medical care for… well, for what’s left of us.”_

Pike is already struggling to her feet before the pained voice on the other end of the line is finished speaking. “Location and condition?”

Cannon fire drills into the earth close behind her, sending debris and clods of dirt flying in every direction. Pike has to dodge and roll to get out of the way and misses what Red Leader whispers. “Sorry - repeat.”

 _“Sector six, think it’s safe for now… but hurry.”_

The voice chokes out a string of coordinates that Pike immediately commits to memory. “Medics en route, we’ll be there in ten.” Pike looks around the battlefield, squinting through the clouds of dust to try and make out any other medics in white and blue armor. When no one immediately stands out, she decides that “medic team” means “Pike Trickfoot” and sets out towards where her GPS says the coordinates lead.

Pike has to weave her way around black armored soldiers doing their best to hold their positions and the fallen bodies of those unlucky enough to fall to an enemy’s well placed blaster bolt. She does all right staying out of the line of fire, but the trek is arduous enough that her head wound begins spilling blood down her face again. By the time she manages to duck into the ruined alcove where Red Leader is frantically pressing down on a soldier’s bleeding chest wound, her fingers are twitching towards the bacta patches stored in her utility belt. Once again, she shoves her own discomfort away, because the soldier bleeding out on the ground is clearly going to need all the help she can give.

The man she assumes must be Red Leader starts babbling something about his team being overrun by the insurgents, but she blocks him out as she triages the situation. Two other bodies lay nearby, but they are so obviously dead that she only considers them for a moment. Red Leader is bleeding from a shrapnel wound in his left shoulder, but he’ll live.

That leaves the figure on the ground. With an authoritative shove, she pushes Red Leader off his friend and throws a medium sized bacta patch at him. “Put pressure on that,” she says, gesturing with her chin at his shoulder. He falls back with a dazed look, and her attention is diverted to the pale man on the ground. Without a moment of hesitation, she shoves both her hands into the blaster wound and presses down with all her might. The man makes a horrible gurgling noise, but she refuses to let up on him. 

When she’s satisfied that he isn’t about to immediately bleed to death, she removes one hand and straps a heavy duty bacta strip over the wound. The man is still white faced and in shock, but if they can get him off the field, she’s fairly confident he’ll live. 

“Help me with him,” Pike says, motioning Red Leader over with a wave of her hand. “On three –”

They heave the dazed soldier over their shoulders and stagger out of the sheltered alcove, headed back towards the forward command center. The fighting outside seems to have settled down to a dull rumbling far off in the distance.

“Kind of makes you wonder what the point of it all is,” Red Leader laughs hollowly as he stumbles over another fallen body and nearly drops his friend to the ground.

Pike hoists the limp body up to a better position across her shoulders and deliberately doesn’t look into his eyes. She doesn’t want to let him see that she already knows the truth. There really is no point.


	2. Scanlan Shorthalt: Slicer Extraordinaire

Scanlan slung his backpack onto the ground and settled back into his chair at the cantina comfortably. He was enjoying life under his new pseudonym in this part of town: no one recognized him, no one bothered him, and most importantly, no one asked questions. It had been five galactic standard months, and still, everyone he had come into contact with bought his story that he’d been displaced by the war without a second thought. It had barely taken more than a few forlorn glances and well timed tears for a few of his new neighbors to start offering to have him over for dinner while he “settled in”. 

Scanlan almost snorted out loud at the thought, but reigned in the burst of humor to a private smile, just in case anyone was looking his way. He wondered what the neighbors would think if they knew his tiny new home was little more than a base camp for selling highly classified information to the highest bidder on both sides of their planetary civil war.

A quick glance around the cantina revealed that no one was focused in his direction. Satisfied that he wasn’t drawing any undue attention to himself, Scanlan pulled out his datapad and flicked the screen into life.

Scrolling through his marked pages on the holonet didn’t reveal much, except that the cantina had kriffing terrible reception. The usual updates were there: the war continues on, the Loyalists are all spineless suck ups to the King, the Insurgents are a band of malcontented warmongers. Nothing involving any of his previous identities or, gods forbid, his real name. 

Satisfied for the moment that he was still a completely anonymous figure for both sides of the war, Scanlan switched away from the main news networks and pulled up the triple encrypted messaging system he had developed himself to stay in contact with his buyers.

_[theMeatMan]: Information on Loyalist troop movements through the North West region going live in 20. Bidding starts at 2 million credits._

The page almost instantly lit up with messages from anonymous insurgent and loyalist buyers, as well as a few interested third parties. Scanlan smirked, and dropped the datapad back into his backpack. Now that he had their attention, all he had to do was get his hands on the information. Nothing the Meat Man couldn’t handle.

Scanlan stood up and stretched his arms out as wide as he could with a huge, attention-grabbing yawn. His hand smacked into the large glass of spiced beer perched on the armrest, sending liquid flying through the air. The glass shattered on the ground loudly, making everyone’s heads turn in his direction, including the barkeeper. 

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” Scanlan said, adopting a convincingly horrified expression. “I didn’t mean to – oh my goodness, does anyone have anything to clean up glass with?”

The barkeeper sighed, and walked out from behind the counter with a broom and a rag as everyone else turned their attention back to their own drinks.

“I’m so sorry, sir, I really am just so clumsy sometimes, I didn’t mean to make such a mess,” Scanlan babbled as the barkeeper knelt down on the ground. 

“It’s fine, just don’t expect a free replacement,” the barkeeper grumbled. 

Scanlan hopped from foot to foot behind him, playing up the anxiety he was giving off. “I understand completely, that’s fair of course. Oh, as long as you’re over here, I think I should mention that I stepped into your ‘fresher a little while ago, and it’s clogged like you wouldn’t believe. I think someone must have been eating a mountain of Spicy Djo earlier, just looking at the mess they’ve made in there. You wouldn’t happen to have time to take care of that as well, would you?”

The barkeeper raised an eyebrow, before sighing heavily again. “Perfect. Just what I needed after the day I’ve had.”

“Thank you so much sir, you really are a gem, you know that?” Scanlan gave the man a winning smile as he lurched off with a dustpan full of glass towards the ‘fresher that Scanlan had purposefully stuffed three pairs of socks into earlier that day. With the barkeeper distracted and a pointed look around the cantina revealing the few other customers were completely focused on their own business, Scanlan ducked behind the bar counter. 

For the most part, everything looked normal… except for the extremely well disguised safe that Scanlan would have mistaken for another cask of beer without the intel he’d received last night about the generous commission the cantina was receiving to retransmit Loyalist messages from the North to the South. 

Scanlan twisted the “cask” around to reveal the ten digit number lock on the back. Ten billion possible combinations. He quickly slung his backpack off one shoulder and pulled out the scramble key he’d developed with an algorithmic security bypassing system. The key clicked into place and began whirring through possible combinations.

The process took nearly thirty seconds, and the first stirring of anxiety twisted in Scanlan’s stomach. If the barkeeper happened to poke his head around and saw him, he was quite literally a dead man.

After what seemed like an eternity, the scramble key flashed the number 2967329548 and the secret compartment swung open to reveal a transmitter blinking almost innocently at him.

Scanlan didn’t waste any time yanking a tangle of cords and his own bugging device out of his pockets and grafting them into the Loyalist device. He had to be coming up on two full minutes back here. A quick glance at his datapad revealed a steady stream of information coming in from the bug, as well as messages from buyers bidding steadily higher and… a flagged message pinned to the top labelled “[Doctor D]: YOU’VE BEEN MADE, SHORTHALT”.

A thrill of fear shot through Scanlan, and only years of work as a slicer prevented him from freezing entirely. He automatically pocketed the scramble key, twisted the safe back into position, and darted out from behind the bar. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thanked the gods that the cantina was nearly empty and no one happened to be watching the bar as the snuck out the side exit. He was practically running away from the bar, which was bad form if he was trying to stay inconspicuous, but he couldn’t think straight around the urgent panic at the forefront of his consciousness. A landspeeder nearly ran him over as he ducked into an alleyway far away from the cantina and hurriedly turned on the datapad.

_[theMeatMan]: You know how I feel about using real names, Dranzel._

_[Doctor D]: had to get your attention – have you seen the holonet in the past few minutes??_

A link popped up on the screen. _INFAMOUS ‘MEAT MAN’ SLICER SELLING MILITARY INFORMATION REVEALED, OTHER ALIASES EXPOSED_

Scanlan felt this heart drop into his stomach. His hands trembled in a way they hadn’t for years as he typed up a reply.

_[theMeatMan]: How did this happen._

_[Doctor D]: someone calling themselves K Lee, apparently been tracking you for nearly year, whoever they are they’re good. must have contacted everybody at the same time and ratted you out. karking son of a vetch must be filthy rich by now_

_[theMeatMan]: I have to leave_

_[Doctor D]: figured you would. there’s a few transports off world left if you can manage to get yourself to the capitol in the next couple of days. good luck out there_

Scanlan gave himself three seconds to panic, then closed his eyes and drew in a deep calming breath. In for four, out for four. In for four, out for eight. 

When he opened his eyes, he closed down the messaging system and pulled up his set of fake ID’s, nearly all of which were completely useless now. Except for one.

_“Francois Bertrand Jean-Luc Australia, wealthy traveling merchant, first-class clearances.”_

Time for one last performance.


	3. Grog Strongjaw: Zabrak (ex) Pirate

The stolen PB-950 patrol ship drifts silently through the vacuum of deep space, hovering just close enough to the nearby space lanes that it could easily snatch a malfunctioning ship, but far enough away to avoid detection from normal scanners.

Grog Strongjaw stares out the _Titan’s Knuckles_ viewport window, hand resting lightly on the sturdy hilt of his vibro-ax. If he squints, he can just make out the snarling expression of the bear head painted onto the side of the ship’s double hull. He doesn’t know why, but the sight of his uncle’s symbol makes his stomach feel hollow. Usually the intense anger would inspire him, but for some reason… it hasn’t, recently.

They’ve been waiting in this sector for nearly two days. Maybe the hollowness means he’s hungry.

Grog’s gaze shifts beyond the ship and out further into the distance, where he can see nebulous green and blue clouds that must be light years long filled with distant stars that twinkle brilliantly. There aren’t many pretty things in Grog’s life. Mostly just blood. And gore. And waiting for more blood and gore.

The stars really are pretty. Grog’s thoughts drift off into nothing as he watches them, completely unaware of the figure behind him until a hand slams down on his shoulder. 

Instantly Grog’s vision refocuses, and he can see his own reflection looking an almost greyish color in the glass. He turns around too quickly, and almost slams his horns into his uncle’s heavily tattooed chest.

Kevdak glowers at him, and shoves him a step away. Grog barely manages to stop himself from pushing Kevdak back. They’re supposed to be working _together._

“Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve been saying, skulag?” Kevdak hisses in Zabraki. _“One of the gravity mines detonated and I need you on the ion cannons when we move in.”_

Grog, who hadn’t noticed Kevdak at all, considers snarling back his own insults, but bites his tongue.

 _“You’ve been acting strange for nearly a month now. It’s time for you to remember where your_ loyalties _lie.”_ Kevdak points an accusing finger at Grog’s heart. _“This is your chance to prove to me that you haven’t forgotten what you are – a ruthless, killing machine who runs with this crew to bring in as much profit as possible.”_

A haze of red seems to descend over Grog’s vision. _“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t give a flying kriff what you want,_ uncle.”

“What _did you say?”_ Kevdak’s hand flexes around the large blaster strapped across his chest. 

A Trandoshan pokes his head around the corner. “Captain – we’ve caught up with the ship. Looks to be some sort of emergency transport.”

Kevdak’s eyes narrow at Grog, before he spins on his his heel to follow the Trandoshan back up to the bridge. “Get to the ion cannons, Grog.” And then in Zabraki – _“I’ll deal with you later.”_

Grog lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding before almost reluctantly making his way towards the armaments in the back of the _Titan’s Knuckles_. He has just settled in behind the cannon when the stars outside blur into streaks and the ship shifts into hyperspace. The jump only lasts for a few moments before coming to an abrupt halt next to a half destroyed ship that was clearly blasted out of hyperspace only a few minutes before. Grog makes quick work of the turrets that try to put up a fight against the pirate ship, blasting them all to pieces before they can get off more than a single volley of shots. 

The _Titan’s Knuckles_ drifts in through the wreckage and attaches to the most intact docking port. Grog clambers out of his position behind the ion cannon and runs after the rest of Kevdak’s pirate crew as they start looting the ship for everything it’s worth.

The other ship is in very bad condition. The warning lights flash haphazardly, some of them smashed to pieces by the combined forces of the gravity mine and the bloodthirsty pirates. The spinning red lights almost seem to make the black markings decorating Grog’s body glow. 

Picking his way through the debris and bodies that the pirate pack has left behind, Grog notices that the hollow feeling he felt before hasn’t gone away at all. In fact, as he stumbles over the slashed remains of a small body, the feeling seems to grow, until it reaches his heart and lungs as well. He can’t tell if the body belongs to a child, or if all these people were just really little to start. The feeling of his horns scraping across the low ceilings makes him think it was probably the latter. 

The pit-like feeling doesn’t go away.

Grog doesn’t understand it – he’s wandered through more scenes of mayhem than he can count, which isn’t a lot, but it’s more than most people. He loves fighting, and battle, and swinging his axe hard enough to cleave his way through dozens of enemies. So why is he feeling so… so… 

In the distance, he can hear Kevdak blasting his way through more little people to get to their cargo bay. To his immediate right, he can hear a boot kick a durasteel wall and a hurried “Shh!”

Grog grips his vibro-axe, and shoves aside the metal plating that had fallen in front of a closet door. If he focuses, he can hear two high pitched voices.

“Do you think he heard –?”

“I said quiet!”

He yanks the handle so hard, the hinges screech and rip out of the wall. Far below him, two tiny figures are huddled together. The female figure is wearing dented blue and white armor, while the male is dressed in a purple vest and a strange red hat, with a datapad shoved between his knees. They both look up in absolute horror at him, and they tighten their grips on each other.

Grog – Grog knows what he _should_ be doing. The fact that these two small figures still have heads at all is a failing on his part that Kevdak would make sure he paid for in blood. He unclips his axe from his belt and twists his grip on the handle as it vibrates into life. 

“Um…” 

The female glares at him, but she can’t quite seem to keep the flicker of fear out of her eyes. Grog should just poke them out, he really really should… 

“Well? What are you just standing there for?” she says. Her voice doesn’t waver except for the slightest crack at the end. 

“I, uh… “

Grog is still trying to puzzle out why he hasn’t moved yet when a large hand clamps down on his shoulder for the second time that day. In the dim red lighting, Kevdak looks like a monster straight out of a child’s nightmares. His eyes are burning with reflected red light as he glares at Grog. 

“The little gnome girl is right. _What are you waiting for, Strongjaw?_ ”

Grog will never know what came over him in that moment. He throws his axe on the ground and lands a solid punch square on Kevdak’s jaw.

The fight goes by in a flash. After the first surprise punch, Grog doesn’t get lucky again. Kevdak is spitting with rage and unleashes a flurry of blows on his nephew that land on his chest, his nose, his neck. A swift knee to the chest sends Grog to the ground, and the battering force of a durasteel-toed boot to his ribs make him spit up blood. Grog can’t tell if the red in his vision is the lighting, blood, or his own anger clouding his sight, but everything is spinning and he can’t tell which direction is up anymore. 

Kevdak goes to town on him with his boots and his armored fists, and out of the periphery of his fading vision, Grog can see the two small ‘gnomes’ slip away from the fight and disappear into the bowels of the ship.

The crackling in his ribs and the feeling of blood forcing its way out of his throat combined nearly makes Grog miss Kevdak’s hissing in his ear. _“Stay on this ship, and die like the rest of them, you useless, pathetic skug._ ” Kevdak slams his foot into Grog’s nose, and his mind goes fuzzy for a while. He thinks he sees Kevdak and the rest of the pirates leave him behind as they return to the _Titan’s Knuckles_ with all their spoils.

And then two small pairs of hands are rolling him onto his back, and he thinks he can see two faces swimming in the space above him. The gnome with the red hat is holding his head up while the armored one is smoothing something cool and sticky across his chest and layering bandages across it.

“Don’t worry – I’ve dealt with much worse than this before,” he thinks he hears one of them say. “They didn’t get to us before we sent out an emergency beacon… should be someone on their way… just have to last a few more standard hours… “

Everything is spinning and getting grayer as the pain in his head and his chest swells. Grog tries to focus on the words he’s hearing, but it’s just too hard right now, so he closes his eyes and lets himself slip away.


End file.
